


Midsummer's Night

by xcourtney_chaoticx



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Durin Family Feels, Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-26
Updated: 2013-02-26
Packaged: 2017-12-03 16:36:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/700409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xcourtney_chaoticx/pseuds/xcourtney_chaoticx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin is wounded after his encounter with the Pale Orc and the White Warg, but only Kili will confront him about it and talk to him about what's really bothering him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Midsummer's Night

**Author's Note:**

> Just some feels inspired by this (http://loobeeinthesky.tumblr.com/post/42274892505/kili-for-the-love-of-aule-im-okay-lad) piece of art by loobeeinthesky :) No slash in here..

It is difficult to pinpoint the cause of your inability to sleep this night. Your wounds, while painful, are not the worst you’ve ever had and are not a major source of discomfort. Here on the Carrock where the Eagles put you, the Company is safe from any attack by Orcs, so it is not any worry of battle that keeps you awake. Your sister-sons are safe, none of the Company are wounded, the Halfling is fine… but there is still one thing that troubles you, and you realize the cause of your concerns.

The thought had never crossed your mind, not once in nearly 150 years, that Azog could still be alive, and today your nephews had nearly seen you beheaded by the beast as you had seen done to your grandfather so long ago. You shudder at the thought of Fili and Kili seeing you die in such a way, imagining the looks of horror on their young faces. You’re sure you heard one or both of them cry out when the White Warg took you in his massive jaws and clamped down. If not for your thick armor, you would have been bitten clean in two. A soft groan escapes your lips as you push yourself into a sitting position; you are sore all over. Your large fur coat slips from your shoulders and falls to the ground. The air is blessedly cool for a midsummer’s night, and you relish the feel of it on the bare skin of your injured back and chest. (You had quietly stripped to your waist earlier this evening, knowing your armor would need repair and not wanting to worry anyone with your wounds.) You let out a soft sigh and briefly scrub at your face with a hand. You wish sleep would just come.

The sound of footsteps causes you to raise your head.

“Kili… you should be sleeping.”

“I could tell you the same, Uncle, Why are you not asleep? Are you in pain?”

“Yes, but it is not pain that keeps me awake. Go on, return to your brother and-“

“Have you had someone tend to those wounds yet?”

“I do not wish to worry them.”

“And you would have Fili and me worry instead?”

You have no response for him. He lets out a sigh.

“We’ll make a deal, then. You let me tend your wounds, and then I’ll go back to sleep. Agreed?” he offers.

Kili looks just scared enough for you to give in to him. He pokes at your ribs with less delicacy than Oin or Balin or Gandalf would have, but it’s much better than Dwalin jabbing his thick fingers at you. You look down at your torso to find your entire ribcage is one enormous bruise with the skin broken in some places, leaving patches of crusted and dried blood. Kili clucks his tongue disapprovingly, as his mother (your sister) would do when her boys came home dirty and injured.

“You need to get these wounds cleaned up, Uncle.”

“I am aware of that.”

“Then why haven’t you done it?”

Again, you have no answer for him. He clucks his tongue once more and sets to gently cleaning the dried blood away from your bruised skin. He works silently, which bothers you as Kili is always talking for the sake of hearing himself speak. His brow, usually smooth with youth and his carefree spirit, is furrowed with concentration and something else you can’t quite name. He moves to sit behind you when he finishes with your chest and abdomen, and only then does Kili finally speak.

“Uncle Thorin,” he asks, “what were you thinking?”

His voice is quiet and tight and so is yours when you reply, “I suppose I wasn’t.”

The reversal of your roles is almost funny.

“You frightened us. We thought you dead.”

“I will not be got rid of that easily… not by the Pale Orc. Azog will never have my head as a prize.”

“I just don’t understand why you attacked him at all,” he mutters, “You almost died.”

“We were moments away from falling to our deaths off that cliff. Perhaps I thought if I could kill him we would be safe… or at least if he killed me then I would not have to watch you and Fili fall or be slaughtered.”

“And you think that we would wish to see the Pale Orc take your head as a prize?” he retorts.

You both fall into silence as Kili carefully wraps a bandage tight around your midsection, both to cover your wounds to prevent infection and to bind your ribs. Then, you feel him wrap his arms around your waist from behind, resting his cheek against the nape of your neck.

“I am fine, Kili. I really am. I promise.”

“No… no you’re not,” he murmurs, “Azog’s reappearance has upset you. I know you’ve spent a long time thinking him dead and your grandfather avenged. I’m sorry.”

“It upsets me for other reasons,” you tell him quietly, “Now I fear for you and Fili even more. I am afraid of what he will do if he discovers you are my kin. I should have left you home with your mother, both of you. If Azog were to kill you… I would not survive the grief if you or brother were to die.”

“Don’t speak like that, Uncle. We’ll be alright.”

You are suddenly reminded of when your nephews were small and were plagued by nightmares of their father’s death. You would go and sit with them, their little bodies nestled against your stomach, enveloping them in your big arms and humming or singing to them. Now, on this midsummer night, it is Kili’s turn to hold you, his body comforting against your back, his warmth seeping into your sore muscles. You drop your head, grateful your nephew could not see the tears forming in your eyes. Your hands seek his out and clutch at them tightly, and you feel Kili briefly nuzzle at the back of your neck before muttering, “I’m glad you’re alright, Uncle. I’m glad you’re safe.”

He sounds like a child; it makes your heart clench in your chest.

At that moment, Fili comes over, dragging his bedroll and rubbing the sleep from his eyes, asking, “Kili? Is everything okay? I woke up and you weren’t there. Uncle…?”

Why do your sister-sons insist, this night of all nights, on reminding you that they are still basically children?

“Everything is fine, Fili. We’re fine. Here, come lay down and go back to sleep. Kili, you too. Come here… we all need sleep.”

Your nephews lay down on either side of you, coaxing you into rest, as well. Kili even picks up your coat and drapes it over so as to make sure you don’t catch a chill in the night. As you rest atop the Carrock, flanked by your sister-sons, you are secretly grateful you brought your boys (for you often think of them as your own) along on this quest to reclaim your ancient home. You just pray you shall all live to see the Lonely Mountain returned to glory.


End file.
